Nacre
by CSI Clue
Summary: Tony can turn anything into a Toy.


I have some experience with kink. That's probably putting it mildly; I AM Tony Stark, and the majority of the world has seen enough proof of my extracurricular activities. It's true, and I've never been ashamed of it per se—life is, as Auntie Mame would say, a banquet, and most poor sons of bitches are starving to death, but my_ point _here is that when it comes to sex of the non-vanilla variety, I'm a name to be reckoned with. (By the way the story about the ram's testicle injections though is utterly false, as is the one about me and the entire cast of _Oh! Calcutta!_ . Even my PR people don't know how THAT one got started.)

Anyway, as I was saying, I do know something about the side dishes of sex, and I've found that they DO in fact add a degree of pleasure and intimacy that you don't always get in a straight one-off.

Actually, I've given up the one-night stands now, and not because I'm tired of sex, you understand, no, it's because I've grown the hell UP, as Rhodey would say, although not to the degree that Pepper probably like, but then again we can't have everything. Sex for the sake of sex is like existing on potato chips; yeah it tastes good for the first fifteen minutes, but if that's all you're getting, you're not going to be too thrilled with your kitchen for the rest of your life.

I need more than just gratification these days. I need _gasp_ commitment. If that makes me a sell-out to the teeming hordes of casual sex fans out there, sue me. I still throw the best parties and they all know it.

Anyway, getting back to the damned point, I had something in mind to share with Pepper, and I suspected she'd like it, but knowing my darling, slightly straight-laced angel of organization, it was going to take some careful finagling to introduce the object of my intention. Luckily, Potts is a sucker for the intimate dinner, and now that we were back in Cipriani, I felt reasonably sure I could talk her into letting me have my way with her.

And yes, groveling a little never hurts.

000ooo000ooo000

We're . . . sequestered. That's a nice word to define the process of being holed up; just the two of us while the rain beats down outside and ruins our meticulously planned vacation. Pepper is pissed about that, but I keep telling her that the weather is the one thing she _can't_ plan, and she keeps making that squinchy face she does when she's annoyed that I'm right. I see it a lot more these days, but hey, it's one of her cuter expressions so I don't mind.

It's also one I can change and I make my start by feeding her. This is something I've discovered I like doing weirdly enough. Pepper used to spend so much time getting *me* to eat that she'd forget to grab a bite for herself, and ever since making her the omelet on our way back from Monaco, I've kind of gotten into catering a bit for her. She fusses at first, but I have my seductive ways, which include having someone else do the actual cooking. I get the fun part, namely slipping her bites and watching her bliss out.

That's right, Pepper Potts is a secret foodie and I'm a secret feeder. Who knew?

The kitchens of this establishment are ranked as highly as the hotel itself, so before us we have a beautiful spread of cheeses, fruit, cold cuts and various nibblies like pâté and Carpaccio that are supposed to appeal to the snobbish guest. I was counting on that when I placed the order, and sure enough, the canapé in question is there . . . along with the implement.

_The _implement.

"Tony, that's enough food for at least _five _people," she grumbles, but I let it go because honestly, Pepper will probably make it last for two meals for each of us, which means we're only wasting one serving. I'm up on the economic math here. I carefully pull out a plate and begin to load it up with what Pepper likes best.

Melon goes on, and Muscat grapes roughly the size of my arc—where they hell they grow them, I don't know, but they're freakishly huge—prosciutto and fresh mozzarella slices, some black olives . . . I carefully bypass the one offering I know Pepper knows that_ I _like and bring her the plate.

She's propped up against the headboard of the bed, still dressed, but starting to relax a bit. Thank God I talked her out of wearing slacks; the paparazzi appreciate good legs as much as I do, and I have no problem flaunting hers. At the moment, I'm perfectly happy to have them on show for me alone, so I scoop closer to her and hold out the plate.

"I'd be careful of the grapes; I think there was a steroid leak in the watering system."

"They do look as if they've been working out," she murmurs, and then picks up a slice of melon to nibble on. I watch her, and feel one of those little twitches of interest run from my brain to an organ of lesser thinking power. Pepper is concentrating on the food though, and misses my reaction.

I scoot closer. We *were* on the verge of changing into casual wear, and I'm all for helping Pepper out of her clothes, believe me. Since Venice isn't quite as much fun in the rain, and we have this big lovely bed right here, with everything we need close at hand . . .

It's the start of a very good vacation, as far as I'm concerned. I help myself to one of the slices of mozzarella, and roll it up before taking a bite. Pepper makes a little protesting possessive sound that cracks me up.

"_One_ slice—and I brought you the plate. Consider this a service fee."

"Yes, well I know how annoyed you get when I don't eat," Pepper sighs, but she's already working on a second sliver of melon. "The other slice is spoken for."

"Fine," I tell her loftily. "There's plenty more."

That gets a little smirk out of her, and for a while we enjoy the food and the chance to simply hang out together. I like doing that, particularly with Pepper. Fun as it is to be large and in charge, there's something to be said for being around someone who knows who you really are.

We talked, we got closer, I made it a point to touch her . . . things were going right on track, seduction-wise. Pepper doesn't play hard-to-get, no, she's naturally shy and it's always a sweet little victory when I get a chance to make my move.

Everything shows on this woman, seriously. She blushes all over her body, and after so many years around her, I can tell by the speed of her breathing and flare of her nostrils exactly how mad or turned on Pepper is.

Sometimes, when I'm being spectacularly stupid in a studly way, it's both.

So we're nibbling on goodies and each other, which is pretty much delicious all round. Pepper has a _great_ flavor, all girly sweet and hot, and I'm seriously losing interest in the food as we keep kissing. I'm tasting melon and ham and sensual personal assistant, and out of the three, the best is definitely the last.

But I do have a plan in mind, so despite the temptation to push the plates aside and indulge in some one-on-one carnality, I move my mouth to one of Pepper's ears.

I go the long way, but get there eventually, and it's worth it, because Pepper is now barely dressed, squirming like a pillowcase full of kittens and growling a little. "Tony . . ."

"I want to try something," I breathe in her ear. "Something a little different."

"I'm not wearing olives on my nipples," Pepper snaps, and I try not to laugh because suddenly that's one HELL of a great image.

"No, no . . . although now that you mention it—" I stop, because she looks so damned gorgeous all flustered and half naked on the bedspread. "—maybe another time. No, I was thinking of using . . ." I hold up the implement, "_this _on you."

Dead silence was NOT the response I was expecting, and for a second I have a tiny moment of doubt. Pepper lies there, looking beautifully confused.

"That's a spoon," she observes.

"It's a very special spoon," I assure her. "Designed from mother of pearl and exclusively used for caviar."

And it is. Small—like a demitasse spoon, but with a flatter bowl, all swirled grey with those tints of color in it.

"Tony . . ." she tries to sit up, and I know I'm going to lose the momentum if I don't take the upper hand, so I carefully bring my instrument of torture and drag it right up along Pepper's flat stomach and between her breasts. The surface of the spoon is cool, and I know exactly where Pepper is ticklish. She gives a little squeak.

This is good. Pepper squeaking means she's reacting and not thinking, which makes for very nice moments. I stretch out next to her on my side and carefully circle the spoon around one perky nipple. The edge of the spoon is smoothly rounded, so it won't cut or hurt, but I'm gentle too.

Pepper blinks and looks down at her body; I lift the spoon and every so lightly use the rim, flicking it over one hard pretty nipple and then the other.

Her chest flushes, and I feel myself stiffen in immediate response to those happy buds.

"Ohhh," she manages, and I lean over to kiss one.

Pepper shudders; YESSSSscore for me.

There are no more objections to the spoon.

It would be easy to lose it and just go for the sweet and sweaty tangle that making love to Pepper can be. I'm very much into that, and the temptation is there, but having thought of the spoon, I'm committed to using it, so I gently use it to trace down her rib cage, making her wriggle. I know it's cool and smooth, and with just the least amount of pressure, I can make Pepper feel it.

She's sensitive, in so many ways. The first time we had a long serious make-out session, I wasn't as careful as I should have been, and Pepper ended up sporting some nasty beard burn along her mouth and neck the next day, and I got a lecture about using conditioner on my goatee.

I do, now—it's as metro as any other grooming I do, with the added bonus of making my personal assistant much more willing to be personal.

Anyway, I pinch the handle of the spoon, and ta-dah, it starts bouncing all along her solar plexus, light little taps that start leading in a southerly direction.

"Tony . . ." Pepper mutters in that slightly breathless tone that tells me she's trying to regain control. This, I have no intention of letting her do, nope. I move the little spoon along her skin and follow behind it with some nice, wet kisses.

She moans, and the sound goes straight to my balls. No lie; when Pepper gives that little breathy gasp I'm as focused as a hunting dog on point. Mind you, the point in this case is not my nose, but I'm guessing that's obvious. I lick.

Pepper tastes fantastic. It's not quite vanilla, and not quite delicate girl/woman musk, but certainly a blend of those, and while it's diluted along her skin, it gets more intense in more interesting places. I'm orally fixated at times, and taste is definitely one of the senses that can heighten pleasure for me, so nibbling, licking, mouthing, kissing, generally devouring Potts is de rigueur whenever I get her alone and undressed.

Sometimes not even undressed, if I'm being completely honest.

The spoon is working its magic, sliding to the edge of the thicket of Pepper's secret garden. I know there are cruder terms for it, and I've used them, but I can't help but feel that in this case, because this sweet little secret for me and me alone these days, it's more accurately a little, warm garden.

Pepper wriggles, and I carefully curl so I'm draped across her stomach, one arm braced on one of her hipbones. I'm not exactly pinning her down, but she's not getting away, either, and I have an amazing private view of one of her better features.

The urge to make a pun about being On Golden Blonde comes to mind, but I don't say it, because someone will NOT take it well, and I'm not about to ruin the mood, not when I have sweet sensual evilness planned. Instead, I lean down and blow gently across those soft little curls and make Potts wriggle a little.

"You're NOT putting it . . . *in* me," she orders firmly. "No."

"That's right," I tell Pepper without even looking over my shoulder, because let's face it, what I'm looking at is . . . mesmerizing. "I wouldn't do that to you."

Before she can object, or argue that I would, I take my little tool of erotic torture, and lightly flip it over her fur, just barely brushing the tops of it. This has the desired effect of making Pepper wriggle, and I feel her hands along my back, pressing on the back of my ribs warningly. "Tony-!"

I grin. Carefully, I side my empty hand across the sweet fur and nestle it down between her hips, feeling the heat of her plump little mound against my palm. A little pressure, correctly applied, and Pepper is shuddering, trying to be ladylike and not roll her hips, but it's a losing battle, because I feel her fingers moving along my back—not quite scratching, but getting there. Me, I'm breathing in the scent of hot-to-trot Potts and lovin' it.

There's nothing quite like the warm scent of Pepper when she's aroused, unless it's the_ taste_ of Pepper when she's aroused. The Potts experience is multi-dimensional, and I keep finding new ones every time we make love.

That's what it is, in case anyone had doubts. I've fucked a lot in my life, but I've only made love on rare occasions, and with Potts, it's always the latter. Even when I'm whispering the filthiest things I can think of to her—and let me tell you, she blushes but it turns her on something fierce—it's more than just our bodies in motion. We've had hot and slow, hard and fast, semi-public, mutually tipsy and every variation in-between, and it always comes up as lovemaking because yeah, I'm saying it, love leads the way.

Anyway, I wiggle my fingers slightly, and that little action is enough to get Potts to open the gates of paradise a bit, if you get my drift. She parts her thighs, and I stroke those velvety folds between them, feeling a fresh rush of testosterone as I do so. The primitive basics hold; she is woman, I am man, and I want to make her come.

This is where the spoon comes in handy.

Pepper is squirming now, and I'm trying to keep her still, but it's fun to feel her shifting under me. From the slick and slippery dampness against my fingertips, she's definitely excited, oh yeah.

I'm careful. I'm gentle. I push apart those sweet, wet folds and open Pepper up, looking at the glorious ruffles of her sex, at the small sweet pea of her clitoris. I whimper. I'm honest enough to admit at that the thought of dropping the damned spoon and just slurping up the goodness was strong in this one, hell yeah. The orality thing, very big with me.

But instead, I lick the back of the spoon.

"Tony, I don't know what the hell you're doing . . ." Pepper frets at me, and before she can say another word, I lightly press the wet, glittery bowl against her clitoris and every so slowly, rub.

Slick, slippery, oh yeah, we have liftoff—Pepper gives this amazing squeal, the likes of which I have never heard before, and all of a sudden ten nails are digging into my back.

It's good to be right. I suspected Pepper would like this, and now I know for sure. So I am evil, and for a good long time I rock the spoon, and rub it in circles, and stroke it in feather-light little barely-there flicks, and as I do this, Potts is gouging furrows along my ribs and starting to pant. The whole time I have the most marvelous view of everything, and let me tell you, I'm pretty sure I'm leaving snail-tracks on the bedspread myself.

Getting Pepper off is the gateway to getting myself off, and this is no exception. I lighten my touch, I move the spoon in slurpy circles around that hard little bud, and all of a sudden, Pepper spasms, arching those slender hips up, and growling my name like the long, lean tigress she is.

She comes.

I come.

It's good. Messy as hell of course, but good. I haven't lost my load like that since my teen years, but spooning Pepper is more than my synapses and reflexes can take, and I don't regret a minute of it, nope, not one second.

So this is where I suppose I tell you that we pledged undying love to each other, cleaned up, made love in a more conventional way and fell asleep.

I _could_ tell you that, but it wouldn't be strictly true. Oh we did all that, yeah, but there's a whole 'nother part where Pepper got a hold of the spoon and used it on ME . . .

But that's another story.

Let's just say she and I have a really nice spoon collection now and leave it at that, shall we?


End file.
